


no working title :C

by QuadConjures



Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:35:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27069475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuadConjures/pseuds/QuadConjures
Summary: This is all very heavily WIP, and will probably get a comprehensive rewrite before I start linking it to people. Shoutouts to all my pre-readers <3





	1. Rain

**Author's Note:**

> This is all very heavily WIP, and will probably get a comprehensive rewrite before I start linking it to people. Shoutouts to all my pre-readers <3

Rain  
Road to Ebonhawke, Spring 1324 AE 

Fat rivulets of water marched slow meandering paths along each ice-grey flagstone set into the footpath to Ebonhawke. The gentle hiss of rain masked worried whispers in foreign tounges, sharp with muffled expletives and old slurs, conversations drifting through inaudible ranges. Pairs of hammered steel boots marched to their own pace, wearied by the long journey. Home, for them, would be many miles back west to the Ebonhawke garrison, emptied wagons in tow. A brief respite in the last eastern city of man would be the only dim star on their horizon for many weeks. Three hundred years ago, this idyllic land, known to its human kin as Ascalon, had been nearly destroyed in a war of escalating magical force by an event known only as the Foefire, rending the earth to a blasted wasteland. Burnt trees, gouged earth, and massive towers of alien crystal remind every man and woman on both sides of the war that nearly claimed them all. 

Rolling hills of dead and dying trees, each a black upthrust gravestone, dotted the once lush plains. The constant rain turned fields of dead grass to murky swamps, hidden amongst dead and dying grasses. Every few miles the wagons would slowly pass a large depression in the earth, with a shimmering shard of crystal poking up from the muddy pits. It was hard to forget the war, even out here, walking the road west with human soldiers. A fragile peace had been brokered, but few expected it to hold for long. Merchants caravans were rare, and gave the armed convoy a wide berth. 

but the day of fire will forever brand these hills with magical residue and arcane corruption. Little grows this far south, and what does twists and rots on the vine. The fertile hills so valued by the invading charr, desperate to feed their own, are now ash and dead grass, swamps, and shattered woods. Three hundred intervening years have yet to heal this great wound.

[and the cost that was paid to prevent Ascalon's fall to the Charr.]

[Few of the other human kingdoms knew of Ebonhawke's expansion west, but with the fragile peace in place, secure food supplies, blah blah blah]

and the [land surrounding the convoy had grown hostile with resentment]. 

[use close-up physical description to describe broad-strokes histories]

[Charr remember that day of hellfire in a similar light, and it would be forty years of churning civil war before the rogue legion had been matched.] 

[Human curiosity had done little to bring light to Ascalon's tragic fall]

Scratching his upper ear with his claw, Sootmouth couldn't help but wonder if either side would ever see the greater cost of the conflict. Both sides desperate for resources and pressed for space, tensions grew daily. Warbands of charr were violating treaties to patrol contested territory. The few people eeking out a meager living in cliffs and hills here needed protection, and the human kingdoms could not afford to expand out here. Charr were disciplined and uncompromising, a way of life generations old by their count, but brutal and savage to the human families trying to eke out a meager living among the western plains. Still, negotiations struggled along, despite growing support to reignite the war. These groups had begun to breed violence, calling themselves separatists. This small supply run would have been an easy target for either side if it weren't for the mixed-race guard surrounding the soaked wagons. Resettled peoples depended on supplies like these, with the soil here poisoned by foul magic. There was so little left to fight over.

The cold blue of weary morning was giving way to the ominous grey-black columns of a plains storm. Out there the rolling plains of dying grass heaved for miles, letting the wind build and howl into storms the likes of which few who saw, lived to describe. The roiling black mass kept pace with the soaked wagons, as they rattled heavily south. the screeching of damp axles on iron braces set teeth on edge among the guardsmen huddled in clutches along the convoy. Some wore the brash yellow-painted plate of the Ebonhawke guard, worn into orange streaks with long use, but others had stripped the freezing steel and taken to marching in the nauseating layered jerkins issued to pikemen. Their comrades back home would consider such a display an offense to honor, but the Charr they marched alongside admired a more practical perspective. Nobody out here would recognize Ebon's Hawk, let alone the more obscure family sigils. Most of the men and women walking with the wagons were enlisted guardsmen of Ebonhawke.

Rain had been a good omen for the people who'd lived here, hundreds of years before. Not that the men and women who'd kept meager farms in this once green human territory had ever known anything more than the hard, muddy toil of sustenance, but it had been a life of stability. Few humans could have seen the war to come.

Sootmouth walked up the caravan, counting stones in the road to pass the time. The men he passed were quick to avert gazes, and just as quick to return to whispered huddles None of the soldiers here would not have been old enough to have seen action in the long battles between their worlds an age before, but stories always passed down. Huge, hairy beasts of the night, moon-white claws and blood-red eyes, frenzied and precise in a bloody conflict that had cost both sides their future. That's what they saw in the Charr, their neighbours to the north. Beasts of the nightmare, creatures from the stories of old. Time-worn horrors of the deepest nightmare, passed in hushed tones around campfires, or to children admonished. He had heard many tellings, each different than the last. True or not, the horrific perception was good for business, and so he made no attempt to dispel them. Men would pay good coin for nightmares.

"Blood always made good soil.." he rumbled quietly, eyeing a half-melted banner stuck along the roadside, it's tapestry long-rotted. The crossbar sagged horribly, rusted steel twisted and bent like a wax imitation. He clambered up the back of the nearest wagon as the rain rose to a hiss.

"You're talking to yourself again. Ready for your afternoon cat-nap?"

As the Charr found the bench against one side of the wagon, he followed the leering voice across the moldy wood of the wagon bed, locking his pale green eyes with the ragged human who'd shot that remark his way. A young face peeked from tarnished steel plates trimmed in a chipped and fading gold, framed by loose black hair cut short to fit the helmet she pinned with one foot against the bench. She matched his stare. Her face was round, he'd heard it called gentle, with pale bronze skin wrinkled around sharp eyes, a brow creased with years of command and the cold knowing stare of a soldier who'd seen action. Officer, by the trim, and a good one, by the scars. She bore one ugly scratch down her cheek into a twisted lip. A mark like that would bring pride among his kind as a trophy of battle, but he knew the strange humans didn't see it that way. He'd known cubs who refused to let their den-mothers tend wounds from scrapping, in the hopes they'd build into stories like that. The helmet carried some thick gold bars, obviously insignia of some kind, but he hadn't figured the system they used to distinguish rank among the guard yet. It was all the same out here, anyway. They all marched, they all fought, they all died. There was something to that, some efficiency of purpose that mirrored his own upbringing among the warbands of the Charr. Their races were so different in so many ways, but they had found common ground in brutal conflict.

"We could both do with a rest, but you know our orders" he growled, his long tongue and feline muzzle warping the unfamiliar human sounds into choking grunts and rasping hisses.

"I also know the Citadel isn't keen on letting its best soldiers off the leash, legionnaire." 

Cold and sharp had always been her way, ever since Sootmouth had joined the caravan weeks back outside Ebonhawke. He'd taken that on its face, at first, but a different story had begun to emerge as he plied his training on the men and women who marched with them. He had uncovered a different story, pieced together from overheard rank-and-file soldiers, swapping lies and slurs, new and old, about their officers. A veteran of half a dozen bloody human rebellions and uprisings, the captain's wounds, and her reticence to behave, had her relegated to a dead posting: Supply runs from the isolated city of Ebonhawke to the outlying small villages on contested badlands.

Human culture had always been high on the list of forbidden knowledge as a cub, which had made it ever the more interesting to learn about. It was a dangerous game, all the more with the ever-present threat of the return to war.

"what /are/ you doing out here, furball? Guarding a bunch of wagons full of grain?"

He knew enough to not rise to the bait, and a keen glint in those cold eyes of hers made him suspect the question had been double-barbed: Information about the internal workings of the Black Citadel and it's forces, home of the charr, had been kept under careful secrecy in regards their shaky human allies.

"Just following orders" he replied

"Funny how often that gets us soldiers killed, isn't it?"

The reply didn't have her signature snap, and dwindled to memory among the damp covered wagon. She held his gaze a moment longer, then looked away quietly.

"We have new orders now, legionnaire."

He bared his teeth in a grimace, yellowed fangs flashing at the news.

"I don't like them either. They're from yours, at least, if that's any comfort." she continued.

"Mine?"

"Cats."

An interesting name the human kingdoms had adopted for his species. Charr could stand a clear yard above the tallest of men, but stooped to use their forepaws for a quadrupedal run. The resemblance to the domesticated barn cats was more of style; Quiet, fast, and unforgiving. It didn't accurately describe the ferocity two hundred pounds of springloaded muscle attached to eight razor claws brought to a fistfight, but it did scrape close to some truth, some innate center of his culture he couldn't quite put a word to. Barn cats knew which fights to pick and when to run, where to find food and when to find shelter. He had grown to like the moniker. They WERE cats, just on a different scale. Big, scary, ugly, angry cats, and they fought hard over the slightest provocation. It was almost a badge of honor.

That more Charr was coming was big news, especially because he hadn't gotten it first. Any news was big news if the Citadel was sending reinforcements, and they still had their own ways of communicating covertly. He caught the soldier's gaze as she surveyed the gear piled on the wagon's bed.

"How long until we bare steel?" The question came out low as he suppressed a growl.

She started at the implication, then quickly darted a worried gaze at the open flap.

"Cats and their sharp-ass intel..." she muttered quietly, climbing over the boxes and buttoning the canvas shut. "Keep it down. Nobody else knows yet."

He shrugged. Morale among soldiers was mostly a human concern. His Iron Legion Warband would fight until they couldn't, end of story. Nobody balked, nobody flinched, nobody ran, until the very end, rank upon rank. Or at least his Warband had, quiet grunts and muffled screams, until they'd been cut down to a man. All but him and his commander.

"If Iron is sending more Charr, there's blood in the grass. What's going on here?" he asked slowly, choosing words in the foreign human tongue carefully.

The question was raspy, but precise. He'd spent long years learning the New Krytan favored by the men and women who lived here for business. After the fall of his Warband, the two survivors had gone their separate ways. He'd taken quick jobs as hired muscle, and more recently, resorted to smuggling through the shaky and shifting borders between the two lands. Inspections were usually thorough, but people think twice before picking a fight with a charr in full Iron Legion regalia, so it was usually easy work. 

"I knew you were sharper than that damp stench suggested." She remarked eventually. "I don't know much, but you haven't shot us in the back yet, and you keep a clean count, so I suppose I can at least share the parts I've figured out." She gave a long, slow sigh. "We're expecting a separatist ambush, and your cats are here as backup for when it gets nasty."

He'd pieced together bits of that from the territory and the worried men, but the official confirmation still wasn't good news. Rumor around the citadel told that the new aggressive strategy from these separatists was fueled by Flame Legion deserters, exiled after the charr civil war some two hundred years prior. They'd surrendered at the plains of Golghein, but in recent years some rumors had begun to build. They had obviously regrown to some semblance of strength. Strange how they could find common ground with human extremists, unable to see the irony they had become, cooperating with human outlaws to fuel the call for war.

"Iron legion isn't in the habit of sending good soldiers to save human supplies" Soot paused, then shook his head. Human dialect would never come naturally, even after years of living and trading with them. He hadn't planned it as an insult, but sometimes the language got away from him.

"No offense taken, vomit-breath" she replied, twisting her scar with a knowing smirk "Especially because those 'human supplies' include me and my men."

as he paused to consider her words, he could hear the rain build from a melodic shower to driving sheets on the damp canvas of the wagon. He watched one droplet pull through the fibrous surface and slide down to the wooden frame before pooling inside. The downpour was shrill to his sensitive upper ears, but brought some sense of peace.

"Still, Captain, if you intend to lead your Warband out of this mess I need to know where and when." He tried a different angle, using the only word he had for family. 

Charr cubs were separated from mothers at birth, raised communally, then integrated into their warbands. They were chosen for skill, and individual merit; Each Charr would find their home, their family, doing what they were best at. The best fighters rose fast and left early, spending their days in the Blood Legion war camps. Sharp eyes and fast hands were picked for additional training with Iron Legion, from advanced weapons to meticulous crafting. Each cub would hone their talents to a razor edge, hoping to be fostered into new homes among prestigious warbands, becoming a part of their storied histories. And Ash Legion? The less said, the better. Subterfuge and diplomacy, assassination, and logistics. Nobody hoped to be selected for Ash training, but then again, Ash never had to come looking. There was always volunteers.

She smiled, satisfied at his change of tone, and nodded her head at the canvas flap. 

"Party's here, why don't you go ask them yourself?"

The remark pulled him out of his reverie, and picked up the scent of kin amidst the reek of horses, men, and mud. He'd caught the scent long before the quiet rustling of fur and steel betrayed the arrival of the charr, still obviously some way off. Patrols were common enough, and there was usually no reason to go looking for trouble.

With a shrug, Sootmouth settled the thick cloak he'd taken to wearing over his broad hunched shoulders, and climbed back down into the steady rain. Ironically, the garment had begun its life as a canvas wagon cover, the only fabric large enough to be practical for him. The storm had begun to fall heavily, drenching the hide and fur beneath it. Not an hour ago the sky had been a mudded blue-grey, the brightest one could hope for this far west. Deep rumbling from the plains told him this wasn't nearly the worst the storm would have to offer. Shielding his eyes with a forepaw against the pouring rain, he made out two hunched silhouettes of charr wandering alongside the wagons. One was large, heavily built, and wore a black cloak with grey gearwheel of Iron Legion, faded nearly to illegibility. The other wore some strange padded leathers, dyed a dark shade, and walked with a lithe gait of a duelist. Strange company to send, an Iron grunt and their apprentice, he figured. Testing some new invention, maybe, or counting supplies. He hoped it wouldn't get in his way. Shaking his soaked fur, he made his way off the chipped cobbles and into the dead grass along the road where they walked in silence.

"Didn't expect to see anyone..." he began, voice trailing off as the Iron Legionnaire turned to face him. All three charr slowed to a halt in the rain, coats drenched and fur drooping

"Didn't expect to see me again, soldier?" the hooded figure replied, a deep rasp of laughter following it.

So it was this bad, was it? Few soldiers in Iron Legion had the combat experience to be picked for officer candidacy, and fewer still had the cunning to make it through the harsh training and brutal competition. He'd first seen this hulk of a Charr when he had pulled Sootmouth out of rank by his neck to join the Warband. Therod had been a good leader, despite impossible orders; A sharp mind had kept him alive, and had kept his bandmates safe alongside, Until that one fateful day on an unnamed hill when their family had come to an end.

"Been a while, hasn't it, Soot?"

"Yes, Sir." 

Short and sweet, don't give anything away. He'd heard stories about what happened to deserters, but had made a point never to find out. By the looks of things, his sand had run dry. Too bad, this job would have paid well. His paw was on his gun before he realized he'd moved it.

"Not like that, soldier. We'll talk later, in private," he said with a smile, rough throat trying at gentleness. "Can you find us some space on a cart, out of this soggy mess?" 

"Yessir, I'll see who I can kick out." Sootmouth shot reflexively, a sly grin beginning to etch his features. Despite his unease, seeing the charr again was good for him, and he felt himself slipping unconsciously into his old role as 'Problem Solver'. Human soldiers had a rank for it; They called them Seargents. He caught himself humming an old marching tune under his breath as he turned to go, lips curled in a toothy grin. Things would indeed get interesting, if he lived to see them through.

"None of the wounded, soldier, and don't throw any gear that could be useful in a fight." Therod shot at the retreating soldier, words nearly lost to the growing storm.

Sootmouth's violent smile spread wider.

\---

"This will get interesting. He's up to something, again." Therod said to his partner, as Soot retreated into a half-emptied supply cart. "Never figured he'd go for hauling rat food, though. Seemed beneath a mind like his."

"Didn't strike me as particularly sharp, sir." the second figure replied, a soft hissing voice cut with sharp discipline. "Are you sure he's the plant? Seems like just a hired hand. Do we have the right caravan?"

"Aye, Kela, he is. I'd know him anywhere. He's the rat bastard I'd marked as killed, twice. Sheer godcursed luck we run into each other here of all places. I had hoped he'd find a quiet retirement, away from all this, but I suppose soldiers never do." he grumbled in response.

The second figure hissed at the revelation.

"Deserter? Sir, I could-" she started, but the older legionnaire cut her off.

"Not like that, and not here. You answer to me now, remember? My Warband, My rules. And I say we need a rat like him."

She paused, then gave him a stiff, sharp nod.

"Ash trains you Dancers well I see." Therod said quietly, noticing how quickly she uncoiled the tension from readied muscles. He carefully and obviously lifted his paw off his weapon.

"Better than you imagine, sir." 

She punctuated with a fanged grin.


	2. Smoke

Smoke  
Road to Ebonhawke, Spring, 1324 AE

As moonlight spilled across the soaked basin where the caravan had made camp, long dark shadows shrank as it rose into boiling grey skies. Soaked and exhausted, men huddled beneath wagon covers, in makeshift tents, and under muddy wagons, peeling down boiled leather and sliding off icy steel plates. A meager fire spat and hissed among the circled carts, splintered branches, and deadfall struggling to provide more than flickering light. The brighter soldiers had already begun dragging tentpoles and canvas sheets out from the supplies, marching wearily in the gentle rain up the nearby hilltop to make high ground for the few wounded. 

Sharp, barked instructions punctuated the endless hiss of rain, pinpoints of sound in the wash of grey noise, picking out human officers determined to make good time despite the weather and wearied men. Storms this bad weren't common, but persistent rain was a constant concern to the soaked plains. Each guard had a meager cloak bearing Ebonhawke's twin gold ravens, faded with much use. Those birds flapped and flew and cried as the men bearing them secured the twin camps, the soldiery uphill nearer the road, and the small band of restless feline Charr making do in the soggy basin with the valuable carts. The charr worked impassively, protected by strict discipline and heavy leather cloaks, wide and short enough to be of some use running or standing. Both groups kept quiet, hands and paws alike on the job at hand. Sootmouth pulled his cloak tighter as thunder rumbled in the distance. It would be a long, cold, wet night.

With a soaked cloth mask covering his face bearing a faded Iron Cogwheel, Sootmouth moved from cart to cart, counting boxes and covering perishable supplies. Quartermaster to his old unit again, he wondered at the audacity. It had been years since that fateful day where he'd parted ways with Therod, the two of them badly wounded and standing among the bodies of their comrades. Nights like these had always brought the memory back, soaked and cold and hating the world for its cruelty. He counted each box like he'd counted each body, each carefully waxed wooden crate, sealed against theft and elements. One by one he brushed his frozen paw across their etched wooden labels. He could only make out parts of the chiseled human script, sharp edges and lines as long as a crafter's chisel. It was the kind of practical solution that his old legion was known for, a language built for its people's tools. Woodworkers kept the old human runes around because they were easier to etch into planks than the incomprehensible flowing script they used on cloth and paper. Just another trick the warring races had taught each other.

He checked the last wagon dutifully, then stole a quick glance around. Unnoticed, he dug a claw into a floorboard and shifted it an inch, peering past, into the gloom. Covered from the rain and watchful eyes, he was grateful for the canvas covers the wagons wore. He caught a corner of a long steel box with his paw, then, satisfied, slid the board back into place. Wagons like these would be carefully protected when the fighting started, he'd make sure of it. Food and medicinal herbs had been stored here, making sure the humans had some stake in that work. He hated the stench of this deception. It reeked of spy work, of Ash work, but it paid well. Just like that new soldier of Therod's, he recalled. She reeked of Ash work too. 

My new bandmate, he corrected himself, with a sigh. Hard to remember that just this afternoon he'd been drafted back in, on that roadside under the cold rain, despite his desertion. My new Ash Legion sister. That would take some time to swallow. 

His count of both supplies and smuggled cargo complete, Soot picked his way carefully back to the conical tent the three of them had pitched among the wagons. Low flickering light threw enormous beastly shadows against the canvas walls, grotesque specters dancing in the firelight. The human soldiers keep their distance. He wondered if they were doing it consciously, or if it was an instinctual reaction, after all these years of seeing them as nightmares. Brushing past wooden carts and huddled groups of men fumbling damp rolls of smoking rotweed, he climbed down on all fours. Shrugging the pitted and stained brown cloth off his muzzle, he took in one last breath of cool air before crawling into the tent.

"Remind me again why I put up with your putrid stench"

The voice was Therod's, and his tone was mocking, but Soot wasn't in the mood to play games. Too many questions, not enough answers. Sitting next to his old friend was this leather-clad Ash legion spy he was now supposed to protect like kin.

"Because you need me. I'd be a lump in the ditch six miles back if you didn't," he answered quietly, "Sir."

The massive black shoulders of the older creature shrugged the implication. "That's part of it" he huffed, pointing a stained claw at his shadowed companion. "The other part is her. Meet Kelash Dawnwalker. Goes by Kela. Don't poke, she bites."

There was a carefully subdued meeting of gazes, pale red eyes staring from under the wide-hooded cloak she'd probably all adapted for the torrential downpour. Or maybe all of Ash dressed like that, hidden from sight. Who could know? They were the claws behind the curtain, always listening, always ready to nudge, or shift, or slice. The information they provided was invaluable, tactically, but it had always struck him as a clash of honor. But Blood legion charges had always seemed a waste of good charr too, so maybe it was just a matter of perspective. She might see herself as the guiding hand, gently adjusting the course of their people. It was an interesting thought, and he'd come back to it on cold nights years later, wondering how they'd changed his life, without him knowing. There was no smile from Kela, no nod, no recognition of rank. Cold grey smoke drifted past, a foreboding portrait of what he now knew she was.

"Seems like small fry to drag Ash Legion spies into human territory" he snapped, accusation on his tongue naming the grey legion that kept the Citadel functional. 

"Partway, cub." Her tone was cold and musical, soft against the gentle rain on canvas. The dismissive child-name stung a little, but Soot supposed he deserved it. 

"She's from Ash, alright, but not just any ghost," Therod said quietly, the gruff tone gone. "She's a Blood Dancer." That came in an almost revered tone. It was a testament to the long and storied history of her training.

Ash Legion was first and foremost in charge of information, gathered and spread, and by extension operated as the backbone and nervous system of the Charr culture. Spies, Assasins, Thieves, all the dirty jobs no loyal soldier would take willingly. Ash legion candidates had to be selected and separated from their warbands at a young age, before the doctrine of family and honor had set its barbs in. Nobody really knew why Ash Legion rated a full third of the fighting forces the Black Citadel produced, but strangely, few were interested in asking questions. It was too easy to disappear. 

Rumors persisted, nonetheless, of shadowed elite units of hardened Ash veterans, sent into the nastiest fights with blood on their tounges, whipped into a frenzy through some arcane means and ready to kill at the slightest hesitation. Though he thought they'd been just stories to scare cubs into obedience, Sootmouth had noticed, even young, that there was something off about them. Some descriptions that were too exactly precise to be stories for children, language too deliberate to be hearsay.

"She's here under my command" soothed the gruff older Charr, "And I have secondary objectives." 

Sootmouth stiffened. This kind of scheming had never been natural to the feline peoples of the hills, just one more habit picked up from the humans they'd first hated then come to respect. Each legion had learned some new trick from their long-time foe. Blood Legion had adapted tactics, training new strategies and organization from the compartmentalized human soldiers, each loyal to their comrades first. Iron had taken a keen interest in the clever violence of mechanics, siege engines, steam power, and, of course, firearms. And Ash legion? Ash had learned politics.

"Iron first, Warleader?" It was a feeble challenge, huddled in a damp tent next to the spy, but Therod picked it up in stride.

"Iron first, soldier, but that means my cubs first. Which means I pull a few strings to get us the backup we'll need." He tossed his grey muzzle towards Kela. "This isn't just any fight we're walking into. they have deserters on their side. Flame legion, from what Kela says." 

Soot's eyes found that of their quiet new bandmate. "Is that right?"

"Flame legion aren't the worst we'll see, I suspect" she intoned softly. "Captain, I need a moment to conduct some business with our friend here, if I may?" she said, a long speech by her standards, from what Sootmouth could tell. He found himself tensed for action, like prey sensing a predator nearby. It was ridiculous, he was nearly half again her size. A snaking twist in his gut and a sharp glace by the spy informed him that size might not be nearly the advantage he would need.

The silence that followed was only broken by the snapping of wet charred logs in the makeshift campfire. Black smoke curled up into the roof of the tall conical tent they'd been using. Another trick learned from the damned tricky skinless rats, Sootmouth recalled. 

\--

Therod considered for a moment the consequences of intervening. His new bandmates wouldn't take kindly to prying questions, but they would take no for an answer. They'd obey a direct order, no Charr soldier wouldn't. Somehow, somewhere, Therod knew he would end up biting his tail for getting involved in Ash business.

"Business I needn't consider, I imagine. I'll see how your rat-captain human friend is getting along. She may have information we could use." he said, climbing up and squeezing through the tent flap on all fours, armour tearing at the fabric of the shelter.

"Kela, play nice. I need him." he intoned quietly from outside, before loping away.

She didn't reply, but a gentle nod relaxed Sootmouth. Neither of the male charr had seen Dancers fight, and he knew that wasn't good news. Not much survived their brand of carnage. He'd heard rumors that some of it was magical, which was strictly regulated among their people. The rebellious Flame Legion was the reason.

Once the older charr was well out of earshot, Kelash crawled closer to the nervous soldier. As she sat down beside him, he could pick flickering features more clearly out of the dim firelight. Black fur, streaked with white-blond patches. Greased leather plate, padded to reduce the squeaking rub of motion, stained a deep red, nearly black. She looked thin for a soldier, but having seen his share of action, he didn't question her ability. There was something about the smooth motions of her arms, some carefully controlled precision. There was vast strength there. If it came to blows, he wasn't sure he'd make it out of this tent alive, even armed.

"No, I heard the order same as you. 'No hurting the alchemist.' Not unless I need to." she said, voice sharp with icy mockery. "I need to speak to a different person, not the soldier Therod so casually drags back into rank."

She looked him square in the eyes, vertical pupils holding his gaze. "I need to speak with the smuggler."

Sootmouth sighed. Twice and again god-cursed luck that he'd run into this nosy Ash spy digging around his past. Now, they had caught him. It had been a hard life, keeping both the Ebonhawke soldiery and the Charr warbands off his trail, but it had filled his plate and kept him going. Until now.

"No resistance here. You have me, Legionnaire. A trial in the morning, or should I call Therod back and have him gut me now?"

She chuckled, belying her obvious position of strength. 

"Not yet, soldier. And this isn't /that/ kind of Ash business. If I wanted you dead, you would have been dead six hours ago on the road, like you so elegantly put, and you wouldn't have known it was coming." Kelash mocked as she drew a pair of whetstones from twin leather pouches on one flank. They shone a dull green-grey in the firelight, with a deep depression worn into each from long use. Carefully extracting a long thin dagger from a hidden arm sheath Soot hadn't noticed, she spat on the stone and began to work the dagger's edge. 

"I need to conduct some business with your smuggler-persona," she added between passes at the stone. "I have a package waiting."

He went cold. Of all the damned chance this blasted wasteland had thrown him, she was the drop. He couldn't help glancing at the tent flap, then in the direction of the covered wagons. Damn this smuggling business and it's information security. He wouldn't have taken a contract like this to deliver to Ash legion, not willingly. Should've guessed, with pay this good.

"Not much a smuggler if I can break your nerve with this pig sticker" she continued, eyeing him sideways as he watched her hone the blade. "So do I have the right... 'Cat', that's what they call us?"

Nothing to do but play it out, he surmised. No gods to pray to, ancient ancestors had seen to that. Clearing his throat, he tried his shot at the passphrase from a buried ancient Krytan dialect.

"By way of sand, each grain it's own," reciting from memory, the language warped and butchered by his unfamiliarity. He hoped it was close enough. This spy knew what she was doing, and even if /he/ was holding the blade he was sure she could kill him before he could make a sound.

"Pale grace of wind, will drive us home" she finished the couplet, purring to some gentle alien melody, obviously paired with the words. Some phrase his supplier had pulled from an old Canthan ritual tablet he'd uncovered in the southern deserts long ago. Soot never understood the context, but Ash legion had its own sources, and Kelash obviously did. 

The silence that followed was long, broken only by the scrape of steel on wet stone.

"So, where's my box?" Kelash finally purred.

"Time, Dancer." Sootmouth was passive, staring into the flames. "You will have the package by dawnbreak."

"Not soon enough, smuggler. Things will get nasty tonight, and I need my tools. We're getting it now."

"Tools?" He shot her a glance "You know there's usually a premium for weapons..."

He trailed off as she met his gaze.

"I know exactly how much coin you were paid, Sootmouth, and I know exactly what's in that box. Blood will be spilled, and if it weren't for a direct order I would have just gut you and found it myself." She spun the words in a low hiss, quiet and vicious. "Therod is being choosy with information, but if it makes you move faster, I will need those weapons tonight, and it may save both our lives."

Sootmouth was quiet, shocked by her words, before his training kicked in. "Yes, sir." Even, sharp, only a little shake to his voice. Dumb question time was obviously over. "Come, we'll get them now."

"Thank you, bandmate." Kela's reply was surprisingly soft, and it took all the effort he could muster to not turn at it. Instead, he made for the tent flap, and prayed he'd see the ugly sun rise.


	3. Steel

Steel  
Road to Ebonhawke, Spring, 1324 AE

It was a persuasive way of arguing, that business with the knife. Back and forth, gentle scratches fading to smooth scrapes as the blade took an edge. A trick like that could do wonders for his prices. If he lived to see the dawn. Sighing wearily, Sootmouth wrapped the soaked cloak tighter around him and braced against the weather. Slashing sheets of water thundered a grey-blue rythm against the wagon coverings as he approached, fighting the storm with every step. Dragging damp, padded feet through the deep mud, claws scrabbling against the odd stone, he scrambled over a charcoal log, black and soaked. 

He wondered idly if Kelash had used magic of some kind. The gift was more common among their race than any true legionnaire would care to admit. Most kept it suppressed and hidden. It had been seen, for hundreds of years, as a sign of weakened form. Outside of the rigid structure of his life in a Warband, he had learned much about the powers that bound earth and sky, from many sources. Many of the races of the world had shared their secrets willingly, some for kindness, some for gold. He'd never tried steel. Violence was dangerous when magic was involved. Rummaging through his satchel, he brought out a thick yellowed glass vial, an elongated droplet, warped to shape around a splash of blood-red liquid. It held an inner glow that drew the eye, fixed it on the little bottle sitting in his palm, covered in droplets of water from the rain. Sootmouth carefully removed the small wax seal, then sucked down a single drop from the meager contents. Burning heat on his tongue, then searing pain, then nothing. He could almost feel the blood-red drop slide down his throat, scalding its way. Resealing the bottle, he tucked it gently into the satchel along with dozens of companions. Magick was never to be toyed with, yes. But it could be used, tamed. Controlled. Bottled.

By the time he'd reached the circle of wagons, he could already feel the effects of the elixir he'd been savoring. Unnatural warmth spread through his limbs, spreading along with the sharp pricking of a thousand daggers, coming to rest at his fingertips, sizzling. He felt energy return, strength return, and most obviously, a heat that helped drive the storm's worst away. Fur still damp, but drying fast, and a good cloak to guard against the true power of nature. Kelash had warned him of a night of combat, and so he would be prepared for a night like no other.

"Hold, soldier! Identify yourself!" A shrill young voice called from the nearest wagon.

As they approached, he saw a man and his partner were sitting beneath the wagon's cover, with the canvas tied open. Both soldiers held their blades, ready to draw. Fear and nerves, he surmised. He hadn't expected to find green novices on night watch. Ebonhawke's finest must have been stretched tight to supply this caravan. Both men were dressed in soaked cotton clothes, with damp jerkins tied tight over top. Each wore a pair of matching steel greaves over solid boots, streaked with rust, and wore full vambraces and gauntlets. An odd choice of armoring, but he didn't doubt that it was an old trick handed down. Watchmen could move faster unhindered, and the spare armor might still save them. The shorter, sounding older, had an ugly red blotch on his left cheek crawling up and under a scrap of cloth tied as an eyepatch, the ruin of some magical wound. 

"Sootmouth, Quartermaster." He kept it simple, forming each word as a stiletto of syllables. The speech of men had strange qualities, and he had trouble imitating their natural use. The upper set of a Charr's paired ears could detect minuscule sounds in high frequencies, and their lower set could pick out low subsonics, but the warbling speech of men fell between the two, making it somewhat difficult to pick out words.

Both men sat straighter at the mangled charr voice, but eventually pieced together his rank.

"Sir, it's late, we drive hard tomorrow, as you well know. What brings you to the wagons in this blasted storm?"

"I'm told supplies are missing. Would like to check." He tried to make the lie angry, but couldn't really muster the style. "There are stories of thieves. Need to count," he added, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt.

"That's a dangerous rumor to be spreading, Sir." The short one-eyed man's reply came out like a viper's hiss, with a whip-snap sarcastic honorific. "Who's spreading such filth?" It was a bold challenge, but fair, by human standards. 

Sootmouth struggled to form an answer from fragments. "I'll take care of those questions, guardian. I need you to let me in, count boxes." He was improvising, but his rank has quartermaster to the convoy was official, even if most of the men and women didn't enjoy it. Might as well see how far he could push it.

"Sir, as much as we'd like to allow that, we'd like to make sure the captain is informed of these dangerous allegations. Would you mind?" It was a trap, and even the smuggler-alchemist could pick it from his broken translation. 

Nothing to do but play it out now. "Go, wake her. We will wait."

"Actually" came a deep growl came from the misty rain, "I believe I can answer in her stead. Is that correct, soldier?"

Emerging from the pounding rain game Therod, his bronze-gold spotted coat soaked through from the storm. "Your captain /does/ answer to me now, are you aware?" he rumbled, a gentle and practiced intonation carried the charr's usual barking tone to an elegant hum. "I will escort these two on her behalf. Come, Quartermaster. We shall see."

Sootmouth swore to himself. Therod had come to his rescue, but he might be more furious at what they found. Charr had been taught from birth to hate the kind of deception he'd made his living trading in, and it may cost him his life, if desertion didn't.

The two guardsmen clambered down quickly to let the three creatures through. Damp boards creaked and moaned as they climbed up into the relative peace of the covered wagon, but neither had much room to move. The older charr sat awkwardly on the child-size bench, and watched sootmouth pretend to count crates. He needed a plan, and he needed one fast.

"Cub" It was a gruff tone, commanding, in their native tongue. "Don't answer, they may think I'm scolding or ordering. I know you have a package in here for Kelash. Forget the smuggler's act, get her that box. We're going to need it. Fighting may break out at any moment." 

Sootmouth almost froze at the sound, but relaxed as Therod continued. He had been an old bastard when he needed to be, but this side of him few knew. It was the last lesson he'd been taught on that blood-soaked body-strewn hill years ago, the only two survivors of a desperate hold. He'd watched his Warband die around him, cut to shreds one by one, his brothers and sisters. The memory kept coming back, the two of them standing side by side as the scattered men ran. The low tone, the pain not from wounds but from broken honor, in new promises. "Go, cub. Get out alive. Iron never broke here. They were all slain. Get out alive." Sootmouth had stood staring for a long time before he'd built the courage to walk away.

"Wake, cub. Memories are for later. We need those weapons now."

As a smuggler, Sootmouth had never asked questions about the packages he delivered. It was easier on the conscience, and safer for all involved. He knew some of his deliveries had been weapons, and some of his clients had been dangerous people. But what weapon would a Charr, one of the Dancers nonetheless, want from a human supplier? He knew humans were tricky people who had long hands in deep pockets, but he couldn't imagine what could draw the Citadel's coin. Even exotic blades were no match for the Citadel's endless furnaces. Unless... Unless the Citadel didn't know? He shot a questioning look at his legionnaire, but the charr was staring out into the rain, lost in his own memories.

Slowly, quietly, he slid back the false floor of the wagon to reveal a long flat solid box, which he carefully and quietly worked free. It had been stuffed snug with wood chips to keep it safe and quiet, and the wet wood had expanded to pin it in place. His paws felt the slick steel case for a grip, finally wrenching the contraband free. Unceremoniously, he pulled it out and slid the box towards the entrance. It was enormously heavy, but with the help the juice he'd drank minutes ago, it felt no heavier than a bundle of kindling.

"Let's go. Kela has dealt with our nosy friends. I'll bring you up to speed when she's geared up."

Sootmouth looked past to see the third charr peering into the wagon, wiping the same dagger on a vambrace, two neat stained stripes in the soggy leather. When he caught her eye, she smiled, showing all four wicked fangs like a predator after a kill. Like the nightmare she was. Stepping carefully, he made his way past the waxed crates, following Therod out of the wagon. When he looked, both guards were slumped against one wheel. He couldn't tell in the moonlight if it was rain or blood that soaked their coats. He knew he'd never ask.

When the three of them, padding softly through the deep mud, made it back to the tent they'd claimed, Sootmouth was surprised to find the Captain of the ebonhawke guard seated calmly inside, her back against his pack.

"Quartermaster, nice of you to join us. Things are going to move fast from here and I'm glad I have your tail on my side." A jovial response, which twisted his gut knowing that they'd probably just killed two of her men.

"I wouldn't lean on that pack. Captain." Almost forgetting her title, he was more concerned about the volatile nature the chemistry in his day-pack than her questions. "Bottles, dangerous."

"Gods, and you walked ten miles with it bouncing on your tailbone?" the captain muttered as she scuttled in horror to the other side of the tent. "You charr and your damned experimental warfare. Give me a good sword for a hundred bottles of mysterious liquids..."

Kelash cut in smoothly. "Captain, there is something I must do here that requires the privacy of kin. We each know our places in the storm to come. Is there anything else we need to share?" The quiet Ash Dancer spun the Krytan words like a spider's web, smoothly and elegantly, despite lacking most of the anatomical equipment. Well-practiced, or his guess about her training was right. He couldn't tell, but she'd read the coded quote like she knew the work it had been pulled from. 

"I don't believe so, Legionnaire." The captain replied, obviously taken aback by her relative eloquence. "I will get my men to safety. Your work here will be remembered."

As soon as the soldier had left, Sootmouth broke the silence in their native tongue. "'My men to safety', 'Your work will be remembered'? Are we going to die for this mud-rotten ditch and a bunch of human rats?" He spat the words like hot coals, furious at their implication. 

"No, Alchemist" Kelash cut in "The operation is simple, and you will be in little danger. Just some rifle work. Your expertise, as I recall?" she finished quietly, voice like silk again. She was too good at reading him, and it was getting on his nerves. He'd developed a poker face that could kill, to treat with manlings. How did she do it? It had to be magic.

"Legionairre, may I?" Therod came in unexpectedly, a paw on Kela's shoulder. "You need to remember who gives the orders."

Kela paused, then sat down quietly. "Yes, sir. A habit of long years in unpleasant company." 

The crackling fire kept all three gazes for a long time, anger bubbling like the flames. 

"Kelash is correct, of course, and her sharp words mask the risk she takes. She's the bait, we're the jaws. The separatists have been told this is a prison transport through their territory. We think they'll want to take prisoners, exchange captives for supplies or concessions from Ebonhawke. Among your mystery cargo will be a set of false shackles, as well as her equipment. Once she starts working, we start shooting. Simple, but we'll be heavily outnumbered, so surprise will be key." Therod laid out the plan quietly and slowly, carefully balancing each new fact with the others. Soot had lived through too many messy battles to question the slow, easy pace his officer's briefings usually took, but that was usually to dozens of troops, all too eager to follow dangerously simple orders.

"Seems like a very small crew to manage a dedicated ambush, especially if they want prisoners, captain. Are we sure they aren't after the supplies instead?" 

"We're not, but either way, we wait until they loot the wagons and unleash the storm." He nodded at Kela, passing the conversation to her. There was earned respect there, between them. Therod had obviously not chosen their new bandmate rashly.

Kelash in turn pulled the long metal mystery case towards her, twisting it to show the single ornate padlock that held it secure. It was some long moments before Sootmouth heard her whispering in a twisting tongue he'd never heard before, scraping a paw on the box's smooth surface, almost idly. A hair-thin magenta line followed her meandering claw, tracing a deceptively intricate rune on the surface. Within moments, the lock snapped open with a loud crack, and the glow faded. Sootmouth knew enough about the arcane to know that any wrong move could have blasted the camp to stardust. A seal like that would have taken enormous energy, so whatever was inside would likely be incredibly dangerous in the wrong hands. He hoped Kelash knew what she was doing.

Lifting the lid of the silver case onto it's back, Kelash turned it about to reveal it's contents to the two males. Inside, tucked neatly into padded cloth, were two ornate weapons. The first Sootmouth instantly recognized as a hand rifle, or pistol, as the humans had named it. His short time with a Blood legion fusilier team had been enlightening to the mechanics of modern firearms, but he'd been more interested in the design than on hitting his targets, so the officer was quick to slide him along into Iron. Nothing wasted, they said. Sharp mind like that was better off building the gear than fighting with it. The weapon he saw here was obviously a masterpiece, but lacked the ornate decorations both races had favored on the long rifles. It boasted some kind of wide cylinder nestled above the trigger, which set his mind racing. As Kela gently pulled the weapon from its case and drew it level, held in one practiced hand, he saw that the cylinder was mounted on a fixed pin, and could spin in place, with several bores to hold a number of loaded powder shots. It was a fascinating design, and he knew it could completely change warfare as they'd known it. He only dropped from his daydream when Kela caught his wandering eye, and shot him a sly smile. 

The second weapon was some sort of fanciful folded blade, not more than a forearm long bundled up like it was. The blade proper was curled in onto itself, around three massive fixed joints with ornate scrollwork up the edge. When Kelash picked it up with her delicate grip, he flinched when a sharp snap of her wrist flicked the full length to its extended position, hissing and spinning to almost twice her arm's length. It tapered towards the hilt, fattened towards the tip for weighted swings, and boasted a wicked long taper to a needle's point. It was a cruel weapon, and still the more terrifying able to be hidden in such a small place. Whoever had made these tools of death had purpose-built them for exactly this kind of customer: dangerous, exceptionally well-trained, and untraceable. She caught his awed stare and brought both weapons to bear in a strange guard, hunched low to fit in the small tent, handgun held high and up, blade arm nestled underneath. It was an odd salute, though Soot couldn't admit to having any kind of schooled training in swordfighting as the humans boasted. He preferred the quick and dirty stuff learned through hard years in the pit fights and long days on battlefields.

"Whisper makes good kit, I have to give them that" It was Therod who broke the silence, bringing them both back to earth. "Kela, stop toying with him. Soot, get your rifle, and find me a ration of that juice you always have. They're close." 

His hand was already in the satchel before Sootmouth even realized he was following the order, pausing to wonder at how easily it all came back. 

"What kind of mix do you need, sir? Your old favorite?" He didn't wait for the answer before producing a small black flask with a faded label proclaiming the wonders of 'True Dwarven Red Ale', a brand of swill the officer had taken a liking to despite its cheap make and questionable quality. He'd had to make several trips to the pirate haven in Lion's Arch to source the stuff. While he was sure no dwarf had been within a hundred miles of any bottle, having turned to stone several hundred years ago, Sootmouth had taken to adding his own concoction of additives to the mix, for a more practical effect. Quickly, he unstoppered the bottle, drew a vial of heavy green slosh from his pack, and dumped it in before replacing the cork and handing it over.

"I won't ask, but if you've ruined the flavor I'll have you nailed to the forge, alchemist." he paired a weak grin at the threat, then threw back the bottle and swallowed a mouthful. 

"Let's get this setup, cub. Put those false shackles on me, behind the back, manling style. They'll suspect something if we do it properly." Kelash was all business, handing him the fool's shackles and turning to let him put them on. Sootmouth tried to keep his professional attitude, but he kept noticing small holsters for hidden weapons that he hadn't seen before. They were all full. Knives, daggers, handguns, thrown weapons, he even saw what he assumed was some crystalline Asuran device. Things would get nasty indeed, once Kelash pulled the cuffs free and got to work. It was a terrifying prospect. Some of those weapons he could only imagine uses for.

"Are you done back there?" Therod was all business, quietly buckling his gear on, but the line was deliberate. Sootmouth quietly gathered his ingredients and pulled his rifle from its holster on his back as Kelash calmly curled up against the back of the tent. She somehow looked comfortable, despite being shackled, like a cat who'd found the perfect spot to catch a nap. She caught him staring, so he quickly went back to checking the rifle. 

As the two males made their way out of the tent, they could both hear the change in noise. No more men talking, no more officers giving orders. The camp sounded asleep, now that the storm had abated somewhat, the roaring downpour withering to a gentle hiss of soft rain. Soot paid careful attention to his weapon, carefully checking the action on it's lever-fed reload, checking the sights, adjusting the pull of the hammer as he slid a paw around the oddly fitting stock. What had started once as a standard-issue lever-action rifle for human sharpshooters had been modified and machined to his needs. Regular weapons couldn't take the heavy powder load that the charr used, so the barrel had been replaced by a weaponsmith in Hoelbrak. The stock and trigger guard had to be removed and modified to fit his feline grip, with a heavily treated hardwood wrapped in cloth to protect it from his claws. 

He pulled the lever forward, and slotted in a hand-loaded shell into the tube magazine underneath. The fat slug had been dipped, tip first, in yellow paint, a single drop running its length before drying some years ago. He slid several more shells into the tube, each painted a different color, then racked the chamber closed, the weapon shifting one shell into the chamber. Let them come, from the Mists or the Underworld, they'd find a hard edge here. And several colorfully dipped surprises. 

Therod led him to an emptied wagon away from the others where several crates stuffed with some heavy supplies had been stacked near the entrance. He motioned the Alchemist up, and Sootmouth settled his rifle on the boxes. Without the misty rain, there was a clear view of most of the lower camp, with Kelash's wagon across the circle from him. If they knew where to look, he could get trapped here, but with some luck, they'd hit the wrong wagon first and walk right into their little trap. It would be a long wait, even knowing the extremist bands were close enough to strike tonight. 

"I'll be around back," Therod began quietly, hefting his signature two-handed Warhammer, "If you need me. Keep her safe, alchemist. Remember your training, and no games. It's going to be close." 

Soot kept silent, but nodded. It would be close indeed, and he could already feel the elixir he'd taken earlier beginning to wane. Leaning his bag against the crates, which had been packed with some mixture of what he could only imagine were bags of grain, potatoes, and heavy cloth. He hoped they'd make for decent cover, if the separatists had found rifles. Men were devilish marksmen and had years to perfect the art before the charr had adapted to the shift in warfare. Soot picked two small vials out of his pack, uncorked both, and swallowed them each in turn. The first pale-sky liquid was cold going down, but almost immediately he felt its effects. The cold texture gave way to a prickling acidity, and he felt the world slow imperceptibly and his vision narrow as the magic took hold. The second vial, a thick tar-like dark red, went down like slimy honey, oversweet with a nasty low tinge of herbs he knew he hadn't put in there. It took longer, but by the time he could see the first few shapes cresting over the far hill, he could tell the old impatience had waned, and his mind was focused. It was worrying, and some of the ingredients were vile and dangerously addictive, he knew, but a night like this needed a clear head and a sharp eye. Magic always had a price.

He could hear the awkward rustle beneath the wagon, and wondered why Therod hadn't just sat inside in the dark instead of tucked under the bed. He'd have to ask later. Flickering black shadows bobbed and floated down the hill with an unnatural quiet, the separatists pushing their surprise to the largest advantage. It wasn't until the large group of men were halfway down the hill that he noticed a pale haze of blue-pink smoke that filtered through the group. Mind spinning like a flywheel, it did the arithmetic of alchemy for him, his eye and hands still lining up a clean shot. Dreamthistle, it was said, had strange undocumented effects concerning the winds of magic. There had been a pinch in that last drink, for it's focusing of the mind. A new mix, thanks to some nasty business trading with some even more horrifying people he'd met on his travels. The whirring wheel in his head clicked, then spat an answer: His vision was picking out magical residue. The group must be under some kind of veil of silence or invisibility, and only his tangentially enhanced perception allowed him to pick them out of the soaked grass. He didn't react, holding rifle steady and aligned with his chosen target.

Yellow.

He'd picked a nervous sort, shaking with fear as he stumbled downhill behind two massive Charr deserters sporting Flame Legion heraldry and the traditional ever-burning sconces in place of epaulets. The man held a short rusted blade, flinching at every ember that sparked his way from what was obviously an escort. Sootmouth began counting breaths, sound fading from his conscious mind to a low, worrying slow thud-thud of heartbeat. Breathe in, gently, and watch the man steel his resolve, grip the blade tighter, and begin running towards the nearest wagon, breaking rank and by proxy, the magical veil. Breathe out, hold, watch him sprint and scream as he dashed madly towards an empty tent. He squeezed the rifle gently. There was a bright flash, a hard slap of recoil, but no sound that he could hear, and the man staggered, the red-hot metal fragment burrowing past a layer of heavy steel plate into his chest. Breathe in, slowly lever the rifle's action, watch the round detonate, a horrific shower of gore and butchery splashing across the tent's white canvas a spray of crimson. It had begun.

Green.

His mind didn't let him flinch, already lining up the next target, one of the two hulking traitors still in the misted fog of magical veil, who was already drawing a crude short slab of iron that must pass in its mind as a sword. Breathe out, see the head raise, mouth opening to shout a command or warcry, squeeze. Flash, a vibrating hiss, and a thick green trail of magical smoke drew a thin line to the creature, the shell bursting on impact as it hit the thick meat of neck, spraying a vile liquid across the creature's chest and face, acid already beginning its terrible work. Breathe in, cycle the rifle's action, line up the next separatist. Men were beginning to turn, but the charr among them could smell magic and would think faster, so he lined up the other beast as it raised a thick shield of wood and leather.

Pink.

Sighting low on the plank, he shot a third round, this one releasing with a dull fizz-crack that he could barely make out over the slow pounding drum of his heart. The shell fragmented midair, showering the shield with a million multicolored fragments, each burying themselves deep into the forgiving wood. He didn't watch them detonate and shatter, instead charging the rifle again as he picked out his next target.

Red.

The men were beginning to react in a mockery of slowed motion to his artificially enhanced reflexes, and he chose a heavy armour warrior trying to scramble behind a tree stump. Breathe out, his mind working on its own uncanny spin to judge the shell's path through the dead wood, snap-flash-roar of the rifle unnoticed. The shot shone a firey orange as it hissed into the trunk where the soldier had scrambled, the dry-rotten wood shattering and giving way under the force, which caught the man by one leg, chewing clean through the thick metal greaves. He didn't hear the screaming over the drumbeat. Breathe in, running his weapon's load through his mind, each colored shell some strange arcane load of horrible potency. Violet next, he recalled.

Violet.

By now the massed ranks of ambushers had begun to find effective cover, between the circle of wagons and the scattered masonry. His eyes caught one looking his way, following the multicolored streaks only he could see with his drugged vision, and raising and arm to point. Breathe out, feeling the rifle tug almost of its own accord to draw its line, a gentle hiss and fading crackle of purple sparks erupting from it as he squeezed. Breathe in, already searching for the next target, the massed ranks making for the closest wagon, ignoring the shot as it buried into the man's arm, bright tentacled streaks worming under his skin, the soldier writhing in unseen agony as the magic did its rotten work tearing his mind to shreds.

Black.

Several soldiers were scrambling into Kela's wagon as he swung the rifle back. Lining up with the last in, a large charr in full Flame Legion plate, armour built to take shots like these. Breathe out, holding the shot for a fraction as the beast leveraged itself in, the wagon bed sagging under the combined weight, exposing the lightly armoured underside of one arm as it hauled itself up. When he fired, there was no flash, just a quiet flick and hiss as the massive beast crumpled, the shot penetrating unarmoured skin and doing terrible damage. Breathe in, as the beast falls, heavily, to the sodden earth, several soldiers ducking back behind the wagon away from his shots. 

Orange.

Sliding his sights along, the torch one man carried threw stretched shadows across the wagon's canvas, showing the three separatists who'd made it inside. It was hard to tell where they were standing by the shadows, but he breathed out, and took a guess. Sizzling whip and a low crack of wood followed the pale autumn gold mist out of the weapon as the shell spun through through the cloth covering then shattered into sharp fragments, slicing flesh like butter inside the confined space. He lost concentration momentarily when a roar broke from the wagon. It had to be Kelash. No time to think about her now. He slid his weapon down, levering open the chamber to reveal the last shell.

Sky-blue.

Sliding the magical shot back into his rifle, Soot took careful aim into the covered wagon, quietly watching patterns in bouncing shadows as the torch one man had dropped rolled across the bed, painting gyrating figures along the canvas. He knew there had been at least four separatists in the closed space with Kelash, and no matter how good she might be, it was his job to keep her alive. There was a violent swing, and thick red sprayed into the inside of the thin covering as one of the shadows dropped to the floor, leaving a huge dim splash to block his sight further. He swore, lined the shot up best he could with the lashing forms, and prayed as he pulled the trigger. There was a bright flash, a snap of the hollow shell shattering, and all three shadows fell. The light inside the wagon turned from the yellow-red of oil torch to blue-white as it caught the thin spray the shot had released, filling the wagon with unnatural fire. He could hear Kelash screaming out of his trance, but forced his reaction down, instead quickly ducking behind the boxes to load regular shells into the rifle. He could only hope that last shot had done what it was supposed to. 

Slotting several more shells into the weapon, Sootmouth brought the rifle back up to his makeshift sniper's nest, sighting Kela's wagon. When he picked it out of the misty rain, the canvas covering was engulfed in blue flames, partially collapsed, and nearly half a dozen bodies he was sure he hadn't made lay scattered around the burning wreckage. Long seconds turned to years as he followed the trail of gore, pools of blood and mangled flesh drawing a gruesome path around the wagons. He eventually caught a flicker of black smoke trailing past a clump of smashed crates, and only caught the flash of red steel as the soldier behind them caught the wild strike from behind. Kelash was only visible to him by the grey-pink trail of residual magic that followed her wild swings. He could only watch in awe as she caught a flame legion traitor mid-leap with a backhanded blow from her pistol, twirling the unfolded blade in horrific precision as it cut clean through leather plate several times before the massive hulking creature hit the dirt, dead. It was almost an instinctual reaction when he lined up and shot the marksman trying to sneak in an angle, a young human tucked behind a shattered wagon. 

Therod's sharp tone pulled him out of the trance from behind his wagon. "Soldier! Get your tail over here, we need to pull out!"

Soot swung his pack up then clambered over his perch into the soggy mud. He flinched as a crack then whizz-thump of a rifle round embedded itself in the wagon's floor right beside him. Time to move, ducking behind the wagon he came face-to-face with a screaming charr, swinging two burning torches around at him, almost in slow motion as adrenaline mixed with his enhanced reactions. Soot quietly brought up the rifle, then let it bark, the round catching the steel breastplate it wore and knocking the creature back. He calmly cycled the rifle, then shot the charr again, square in the forehead. Theord stepped a massive steel boot over the body to swing at the next soldier, a human soldier, fitted with full plate. The child-sized shortsword it swung up to meet Therod's swinging hammer, which splintered under the massive weapon as it crumpled into the chestplate. The soldier let out a soggy wheeze as he crumpled, ignored by both Charr as they turned to the coming storm.


	4. Scramble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is still heavily WIP, has basically no drama yet <3

Scramble

Slow gentle ripples shook the flat black glass of lake as the small ship drifted to a chorus of screaming insects and howling whildlife. Wisps of yellow-grey smoke trailed from the gentle glow of a hand-rolled plump monstrosity of a cigar dangling from the driver's crusted lip. Light spilled and seeped into the black corners of the cabin the three cats had climbed into, holding down the stifling smell of wet fur and old fish. Stained and wet fishing traps for some kind of aquatic creature made for uncomfortable seats around the chipped hardwood table that held their cards. Kela kept her cards pinned flat to the old table with one claw, her other paw held tight to her bandages. She kept her breath to a slow low hiss, the mysterious training she'd leaned on in combat now focused on holding the pain down. Striped ash and black streaks of hair clung to her face, sweating from the effort despite the cool air pulling through the door. 

Soot kept his eyes low, preferring to match the practiced gaze dealt by Therod from just over the cards he kept shuffling close to his muzzle. He maintained a precarious balance between one leg pinnned against the table, and the fisher's trap he kept balanced on one edge, rocking with the gentle waves. Sootmouth fingered a pair of black knaves and the red queen while he considered his captain. They were long off the trail of direct orders from command, of that he was sure. He was also sure that his officer had some idea where he was getting his mysterious ingredients, the ones that had saved Kela after the ambush went sour. The real concern was if he could connect the dots to his earlier exploits, back the Legions. It was tough to read that knife-eye gaze. It was probably something only taught to officers. 

Kela's stiff voice plucked him back to the game on the table. 

"Soot. Wake up. Your play." curt, short scentences, cut with pain. She was giving him the same knowing straight stare he'd seen in her eyes on that muddy hill.

playing the queen down onto the table in front Therod, he shot Kela what he'd hoped she'd see as a sympathetic glance. She met it with her steel facade, her mask of trained focus unbroken. He wondered if there could ever be anything else now.

"Well, Quartermaster, don't let your judgement be impared by the... injured party." The calm quip took him off-guard as Therod laid a matched king onto the queen, meeting the trick. The face on the card bore, it was said, some resemblance to an old Ascalonian king. Sootmouth had never managed to figure out which one.

"You were going to call me bait. Sir." Kela slid a black king to her new commander, continuing the trick. "We did get most of the rats. A fair trade?" She'd kept the pain out of her voice well, but both males could tell she was putting the show on for their acocunt. 

"You can cut the performance, we're warband now, remember?" Therod was gentle but firm. Her new allegience to his command had been tested, and warband had to come first, no matter what mind-warped training she'd undergone to survive the winds of magick.

"Yes, Sir. Warband first, Iron Strong, Powder before Shot, I know all the lines." It was a more relaxed response, but the pain was more telling. There would be many long nights before they crossed the pitch-dark lake and she got the surgery she would need. Sootmouth had assured both of them that he had a contact in the city of ) that would be able to heal magical damage, charr or human, no questions asked. How they'd manage to affor the service, however, was a question nobody seemed to want to ask.

"Good. Now, Quartermaster, I belive the patient would like another dose." He gave the order as he played his response, a low trump to beat Kela's queen, defending her trick.

Soot sighted as he put down his cards, then dug through his pack for the medicine he'd made up days ago. He'd kept it in the same clear glass bottle he'd looted from the mage's corpse. The thick purple liquid glowed slightly, spilling light into the recesses of his bags. Black leather scraps folded around rare ingredients, carefully packed green glass bottles holding more foul liquids and concoctions. His muddy brown paw wrapped around a small shot glass he'd pocketed from some human bar he'd used as a market, way back when. There was a gentle thunk when he put it on the table, followed by a slosh as he dragged out his water canteen.

"This could be dangerous, taken too often. I'll mix a gentle dose." he said, splashing some water into the miniature glass then returning his canteen.

"Dangerous as in posionous, alchemist, or dangerous as in addictive?" Therod tried to sound casual, but Soot knew the concern was genuine.

"Both, worse in ways you won't understand, sir. Magick doesn't play nice with elixirs, and there are other complications." 

"How long have you rehearsed that, son?" Therod's voice was cold and sharp. It was the voice he'd tried a few times on problematic orders. He was not playing nice tonight.

"Alright, sir, I can give you the technical version if you'd like?" Soot tried the lie one more time in desperation, knowing full well the card games proved he couldn't bluff a sack of potatoes. 

"Not a hundred of those blasted burning deserters would be worth the least of your fellow Dancers and you know it, Kelash Dawnwalker." Therod changed the subject sharply, adressing the wounded charr. "I wouldn't want to lose you for a thousand."

Sootmouth was thankful for his commander's blunt diplomacy, firmly closing the discussion before Kela could get involved properly. She would find out eventually, he supposed. He just hoped he wasn't there when she did.


End file.
